


chroma high

by leslie057



Series: Jancy week 2020 [5]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Character Study, Colors, F/M, Fluff, Romance, Teen Years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:40:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27397360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leslie057/pseuds/leslie057
Summary: “between them, there is an entire spectrum of color. permanence real, chroma high.”written for jancy week day 5 theme: rainbow
Relationships: Jonathan Byers/Nancy Wheeler
Series: Jancy week 2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1994266
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	chroma high

Red. Red should stream and seethe as a definite symbol of anger, of blood flow. To her, it kind of smells like chemicals. Developer, Stop Bath, Fixer. Having prescinded from her stress, she sits on the counter and enjoys watching him. He stares catatonic at the will-be photographs and responds absently as she talks to him.

After ten minutes, his stomach growls, and he joins her in eating. Red is the strawberry in his mouth when she solicits a kiss. It starts light but goes long. She hugs his waist, savors their short period of privacy. They’re hidden away from both daylight and judgement in this dramatic little room, all harsh shadows and close walls that seem to box them in, encouraging their activities. 

Red is lips bitten too hard. This happens when one of them suspects lunch will be over soon. If they can feel that sweet trace of soreness for the rest of the day, it will keep them grounded in reality. Monsters are only half as distracting as a good kiss. When the bell _does_ ring, she hops down from the counter and stacks his books up neatly next to hers. He organizes the photos, and in her brain, a timer ticks steadily. A rhythmic measure of the few hours of school that remain, and when all is gone, she too can go. He steps past her to empty the wash water, palm landing on her shoulder for a second as a silent _excuse me._ The red on his hand is not vivid at all, semi-erased by the passage of two long years, but perhaps it’s the most consuming. Still, she’s learned to think of their scars as proof of grit rather than tragedy.

Orange is pure warmth. She pulls back the curtain of her bedroom window, peering through clean glass at their quiet cul-de-sac. Sure enough, his car is dragging itself up the street—ten minutes late, but he _did_ just get off work. On her way out, she gratifies mom with a vague description of what she’s doing, where she’s going. 

With that, she’s free. Orange is the sky, dusky and soft with dark clouds that thread through it like feathers and appear contiguous with the rooftops. Before he can simply shut his car door, she’s clinging to him. He braces himself through calm laughter, and her hands skate up over his shoulder blades. Even though the wind is almost knocking them over, it’s undeniably warm. 

_If you’re gonna start doing this every time I pick you up, can you warn me? Because, honestly, it kinda hurts._

She hugs tighter. _You know, if it weren’t your birthday, I would tell you to stop being a smartass._

After the sun has set, and they’re wrapped in darkness, orange is the fleeting spark of his lighter. They don’t do this very much; it’s a kind of fitful practice. A paradox more about the sense of rebellion and less about the nicotine. Besides, even if he found himself wanting to do it often, he wouldn’t lest he develop yet another of his mother's bad habits. 

She brings the little paper rod to her mouth and inhales the smoke. They’re sitting on the hood of his car, and as she begins to cough, he has to get an arm around her hips so she doesn’t slip off the edge. Like always, they laugh at themselves. She slides back and lies against the windshield instead, pulling him down toward her. Orange is the reflection of house light on Lake Jordan (he usually protests against Lovers’; she agreed as part of his birthday present), trembling in thin dashes of gold glow. The houses seem further away than they are, and she can’t figure out why, but she doesn’t feel like she’s in Hawkins. 

Maybe it’s because she’s never on this side of town, or maybe it’s that Hawkins is less of a home than she thought. Compared to Jonathan, it’s neither dear nor safe. But as long as she has him, she doesn’t really need a soft place to land. As it stands, she’s found her haven. Her hope is that he feels home with her, too.

And then there’s yellow. Yellow, it—

Well, it makes her blush. It’s the heat of her lamp in the evening. While they talk. Or undress. Or read their textbooks. The first time they studied together, she was so distracted. Mind wandering, and Blondie’s _Autoamerican_ only made matters worse. Outside, rain battered against the window. But inside, it was dry and mellow and yellow and his sweater was _tight_ and she couldn’t stop staring at him. 

In the light, yellow was the hue of his hair. Half past dirty blond and somehow bedraggled even though they really were just studying. It was weird—they had avoided each other for a year, but then _he was her boyfriend_. Her boyfriend, propped up against her pillows with one leg bent, knee moving side to side slowly like a pendulum. He chewed on a pen and blinked at the book in his lap. 

_That was my favorite pen, you know._

In a rush, it was replaced in his hand. When he apologized, he seemed genuinely ashamed. Concerned, like he hadn’t realized he was doing it. He wasn’t usually that nervous around her, but he wasn’t used to being in her bed just yet.

_Don’t worry, I think I can find it in myself to forgive you_. As she said it, she was already closing his book and tossing it aside. She’d been wanting to take a break for a while. His surprise was visible as she abruptly—maybe too abruptly—climbed in his lap. Yellow was the pastel shade of the blanket beneath them, which he reached for and pulled over the sides of their waists. He kissed back delicately, let himself pull her close so they were chest to chest. _You can chew on it forever,_ she joked as their mouths disconnected. 

It pulled from him a relaxed wisp of a laugh, and it dawned on her then that he was the only study partner she would ever need again. 

Green is for the woods. It’s not often that they step foot in them, but there is only so much to do in Hawkins. And sometimes, it feels good to do it. Prove to themselves that their fear is only so dominant. The best thing is it gives them an excuse to hold the other’s hand a hint tighter. 

One day, they take a walk behind her house. Under the green grove, she walks with her fingers curled around his arm, and they make light jokes. And nothing bad happens. 

It’s nice when they get hopeful. Both of them fantasize about a future where their foul paranoia ceases to exist. Where they drink vodka alone (together), for fun, with no invasive third party talking their ears off about everything he thinks is bullshit. 

They fantasize about being alone together.

Then blue. For her eyes, definitely. Darkly shadowed some days but crystalline on others. He doesn’t mean to dwell on it—she would not look dissimilar or less beautiful if her eyes were brown or black or pale. But it only makes sense that she would have them. Shrewd and persuasive and flooded with rare tenderness that even he couldn’t ignore as they got to know each other. Merely looking at him, she weakened his usual inclination to camouflage himself. Despite how little he wanted her to do this, despite how hard he tried to protect himself, he felt he was breaking open with every paranormal second. He still feels himself breaking open all the time. 

Indigo and violet remind him of morning: the very early hours of it. The world is odd but so motionless, and he likes that. If he were an early riser, he could watch the gloomy purple wane and surrender to sun, brightening above a sheet of muzzy cloud. Needless to say, he’s not an early riser. And if he’s ever up at this time, it’s because he simply cannot sleep. 

Beside him, Nancy shivers. They can’t afford to keep the heat on through the night, and it frustrates him. On its own, it’s not that big of a deal. She’d never dare say it was. But the feeling that she has to make sacrifices for him comes up again and again. It disturbs him. 

He finally gets up for another quilt. She wakes quickly. 

_Where ya going?_

_You were shivering._

He slides back into bed and sets the heavy blanket over her. 

_I think that’s what you’re for_ she murmurs, accepting the extra warmth anyway.

Later, a long while later, purple is his NYU sweatshirt. He still can’t afford to keep their place warm and comfortable all night. But he doesn’t beat himself up about it. Instead, he lends her the fleece-lined garment before they lie down and curves himself around her until they’re practically stuck that way, serene and lined in a natural heat. 

This important thing between them—

It can’t be measured, but it is spoken for in the infinity of color. Between them, there is an entire spectrum. The permanence real, the chroma high. 

  
  



End file.
